Sleeping with the enemy
by Dinadette
Summary: Aunt Polly thinks about the enemy, dances with the enemy, and a bit more, without forgetting her priority. Polly Gray/Inspector Campbell, Polly Gray/Luca Changretta.


Always had a strange taste in men, she had, Aunt Polly.

After the fiasco with her husband, she decided to stick with those who were young and unsophisticated enough to respect her – or her money – unless they belonged to the savvy ones who knew of her ancient, noble blood.

But it wasn't the only weirdness about her, and perhaps that was why she was finding herself out, with Changretta of all men, discussing Tommy's demise as if it was but another pesky bug to chase away. In a way though, it was.

When they seemed to reach an agreement, the man had the gall to ask her for a dance, and she almost slapped him. Instead she kept her composure, and claimed that she had long foregone public dancing. He would surely get it. He didn't. Somehow she didn't believe it was a language block.

A private salon had been opened for them, and soon he was asking her to dance again. This time she didn't refuse.

As she found herself in the man's surprisingly strong embrace, trying to remember her steps, she was reminded of another pair of strong arms. Campbell. The inspector, as she still refered to him.

The inspector used her body, and for that he had to die, but the macaroni wanted to use her mind and soul – someone like Polly, who talked to spirits, couldn't ignore this was much worse. No, she would leave him for her boys to handle. Her eyes clung to his handsome face, dark and mysterious eyes, darting toward his lips. Polly wondered how it would feel to entice him further. She knew how Campbell kissed, heck she had been the one instigating it, taking his mouth that day in a church no less. Then she rubbed him at the police station, hoping to talk him through his orgasm, but he had gone too far… And whoever laid a hand on her, had to die.

And die he did, like an ancient curse, something biblical even, the modern Judith seducing the enemy general, shooting him as he was kissing her, unsuspicious or deciding that she was worth the risk, and hard against her stomach. She didn't get to talk him through his peak, but she did hold him through his passing. Polly conveniently always forgot that she only found it in herself to shoot when she imagined him making her his second choice, after that Burgess kid who also snatched her Tommy. Fortunately, as the spirits whispered, she didn't live so long.

« What are you thinking of, _bella_ ? », Changretta asked. More perspective than she would have accounted for, that one.

« Nothing », she countered. Then she mellowed a bit, a peace offering before a total war. « Just you ». Him, or another enemy, or nothing, it was the same in the end because this was what would remain. He didn't comment but his grip turned harsher, leaving bruises, and he whispered something in Italian or so she imagined. Suddenly his mouth was on hers, she tried to push him away, but her traitorous hands, the traitorous hands of a traitor, grabbed him closer.

Like the inspector, he muttered things under his breath, things she didn't care to try to understand, and he was radiating heat. She moaned, feeling him hard against her. He would prefer a youngun, too, she thought but she tried so hard to reject this idea. Her nails raked at him through the multiple, luxurious layers and he didn't as much as wince. Only someone used to pain, a mobster, or a soldier, or a woman, wouldn't.

She only phrased to herself that he was dangerous when she felt another hard thing, in a place that could definitely only be a weapon, and she didn't say anything outloud but her breath did hitch, half pain half arousal, at the sensation and what it meant. She could push him away, the wisest thing, or ask him why he brought a gun to meet her, but maybe there was a compliment to be found, and a woman like her didn't get them that often, at least not without paying. Certainly not from family. Maybe this was why she always went for the other side.

She devoured his mouth, massaging his tongue with hers, shifting to make it easier for him to rub against her. Campbell hadn't been prudent, Changretta was something else. It didn't mean he would live, oh no. But she would love to hear how his accented English dissolved into Italian as her small hand gave him just what every man wanted, quicker and quicker, until he melted against her skin.


End file.
